


Take a deep breath and hold it in

by jukeboxpunk



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Jon Being Mean Because He's S1 Jon, Last 4 Are More Mentions or Small Parts, M/M, Set during S1, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24408520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jukeboxpunk/pseuds/jukeboxpunk
Summary: Jon needs something- someone who's not part of the stifling Archives. He just needs to breathe if only for a moment.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 6





	Take a deep breath and hold it in

**Author's Note:**

> Rating is for later chapters, will add tags for later chapters as I add them. I needed to get this one out of my system before I continue because I have too many wips on my laptop and it's really stressing me out.
> 
> Just a heads up this is going to turn into a self-indulgent mess of me (a grey-ace queer trans man) writing smut that doesn't make me incredibly uncomfortable. Therefore how I write Jon's asexuality is going to take heavily from my own experiences.
> 
> This is also my first tma fic! Gotta love that I'm being lazy and making it so I only have to write one canon character :')

The thought occurs upon the second night he remains late in the archives in a fruitless attempt to salvage any form of organisation he can uncover in Gertrude's mess: he needs some stress relief.

It's merely fleeting. What's a few stressful nights in the grand scheme of things? There's no time, anyway. Thousands of loose and unmarked files are the only thing his mind and hands have time for.

When Jon finally sits down and begins to record his first statement, the thought is entirely gone.

He finds no comfort or satisfaction in the company of his assistants. Regret sours the fringes of his mind. At the bare minimum they do their job. Well- most of them. He tries to scan the faces of his former colleagues in his memory, tries to think of _anyone_ else he could've found use in, someone who didn't try to bring him a damn cup of tea every hour. Their features fuzz with the static of unfamiliarity and he can't even recall a name. The thought occurs again.

The tea Martin makes is fine. Alright, it's good. It's good tea. He can smell it before he hears the shuffle of footsteps and the knock of the man he knows is coming to bother him. The tea, at least, pierces the stale scent of paper and a damp something he can't place. But it's a smell he quickly tires of. He needs to get away. It's suffocating. He needs something _different_.

He thinks of Georgie but, no, she's too familiar. Too involved. Jon thinks of the mountains of papers and the whirring tape recorder and the faces he's trapped with and he sees her alongside it all. She won't do. But still, his eyes glance her name in his contacts more than he'd like to admit.

The need for escape lingers. _She_ lingers. He stares at her name and thinks _what if_?

He can't quite fathom what he's feeling when his mind wanders back to a name he hasn't bothered with in years: Arlo. And there he is right near the top of his lengthy contacts list; full of supplies and water companies and electricians and organisations all labelled accordingly so he _knew_ who was calling. Their messaging history is suitably blank.

He wonders if Arlo even remembers him, if his name is still set as something demeaning or childish.

This thought doesn't linger. It consumes him.

Arlo finds time in his thoughts when he's returning a statement to their still appalling filing system. Arlo. He can't remember exactly when they met. Perhaps that was a good thing. He couldn't recall their last meeting either. It all melded together in a blur; snippets. The softness of an oversized jumper, lemon cake and walks and confined, private spaces. Most jarringly: the pull of knowledge. The man was full of things Jon didn't know. Maybe that was why he lingered.

In the privacy of his own home, he typed out the first words in weeks that wasn't in relation to work, or fixing something, or finding out when the hell that order of filing cabinets was arriving when it was very clearly scheduled for two days ago.

_Hello, Arlo. This is Jonathan Sims._

His thumb hovered over the button that would seal an interaction he either had to go through with or would discover his recipient had switched numbers or blocked his own long ago and the whole thing was an embarrassment that existed only in his own mind. Somehow, that was worse than someone knowing the emotional turmoil he'd subjected himself to. Jon grimaced at the thought and threw his phone a little too hard on the armchair beside him. He stomped off to his kitchen and busied himself with heating the last of a curry he'd made too much of a few nights ago.

Jon immersed himself in the latest factual material he'd found himself invested in while he ate. He showered, tidied up, and when his head hit the pillow he hoped sleep would be the last of it. As the welcoming feeling encompassed him he was reminded that he'd have to wake up to the same routine he'd been locked in since Elias called him into his office to give him the "good news". So innocent and unsuspecting he'd been. Sour regret, once again.

The crowded yet organised desk rattled with the impact of Jon nearly jumping out of his seat when he received the message. There's a frantic moment full of hope and dread that's dissolved as soon as he opens the message. It's from Martin. He's sick. Wonderful. Wonderful...

The days drag on and Martin is still absent. He can't quite take it anymore. He has to get out, leave, do anything that isn't reading a damn statement or rummaging through them to find something that doesn't appear to be written by a drunkard spinning mad fairy tales and wasting his precious time. It's a sensation that builds quickly in his chest and travels down his arms and turns his stomach and it's screaming for him to run, _escape_. He's felt it before but not like this. It's as if his body is being smothered from the inside out while he's caving in on himself. He looks for something, anything to ground him or free him from this feeling.

_Arlo? It's Jon._

He sends the message before he can even think it over and the crawling, trapping feeling in himself pools out like he's let a floodgate loose. He doesn't quite know what to do with himself, then. He lets the phone fall to his desk with a dull thud that sounds too far away. He grabs his coat on the way out. A walk. Yes, a walk.

The cool air does him good. He received an almost concerned look from his two remaining assistants and that's all he has to think about as he wills his legs to move; an explanation. Too stuffy, perhaps? He spends most of the time in his office, anyway. They'll either shrug it off or pester him and although he'd prefer the former, the latter doesn't seem too far off what he's already been dealing with.

When he gets back Sasha gives him a follow-up on a statement and that's the end of it. Tim is sipping a coffee he's sure wasn't obtained from within the archives but he ignores it and returns to his office.

He sits at his desk, straightens the papers, and everything's back to normal. Except, his phone's still where he dropped it. If he just leaves it there, nothing happens. The screen remains black and he can get back to work like's he's supposed to be doing on company time, not caught up in whatever this is. And he does. Work, that is, but not without his eyes being pulled back to his phone all the while.

The final minute of his working hours ticks away and he soaks up every second, clicking off the tape recorder with forty seconds to go. He drags out the process of sorting the file, arranging everything in place, shuffling and rearranging things he's sure don't need moving.

He's been there seven additional minutes by the time he's standing at the front of the desk and staring at his phone. He can _feel_ the way his face is slackened to a frown and it's ridiculous. He shoves the dread from his mind and picks up the source of it, pocketing it and leaving the archives.

It's when he's at his door he finally lets himself be drawn back to Arlo. _It can't hurt to check your own damn phone_.

He swallows on a dry mouth, pulls it out of his pocket, and turns on the display.

_Jon?_

_JON!?_

_I onlt know one Jon so it must be you right_

_only*_

_What are you doing texting me now??? Did your therapist tell you to apologise to everyone you've wronged in life??_

_Seeing as you still haven't replied yet I'd say you threw your phone into the ocean to cut me off yet again._

_But I guess you didn't entirely cut me off since you still have my number_

_What do you want?_

_Want to go get coffee?_

_Hey_

_Hey_

_You know what you're probably working so meet me @ the little banksia on sunday. I think I remember taking you there but maybe that was someone else. Look it up if you don't know it. 11am sharp!_

All Jon can do is laugh to himself; a short, breathless thing. He sleeps heavy that night.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope the name "Arlo" is ok. I tried real hard to make it sound normal and not typical cringe self insert levels out of place


End file.
